The Result of Mazarbul
by elleffsee
Summary: Dwalin thinks everything is fine in Moria, until one day the book comes and then nothing is the same again...


Dwalin stood on the wall, overlooking the valley that surrounded the Lonely Mountain. It was a calm day, the rains of the week past had faded away to the east. All that could be told of its having poured for a week straight was the murky color of the raised river and the puddles of mud that were all-too-common surrounding the gates of Erebor.

If he had wanted to, he would have considered it a nice day. The sun was out, the birds chirped. Bilbo would've liked such a day and, had he been around, probably proposed a walk. But the hobbit was gone, many years since, and he would now be back safe in the Shire. Dwalin wasn't sure what the weather would be like there in the west and whether or not it would be agreeable to a walk. Dwalin wondered if Bilbo still enjoyed his walks; he'd have to be nearing one hundred by now.

He, himself, was old as well. Not that he would admit it, of course. He felt an ache deep in his bones now, one that didn't come from being war-hardened rather than came from waking up from a tossing-sleep. He felt a lust in his bones, not for battle and bloodshed, but for a warm meal and a warm fireplace. Years of peace and prosperity had made him complacent and slow in his old age. Dwalin would complain about it, but he couldn't bring himself to. Erebor was safe and that's all he had ever wanted in those many years he had been away from it.

But now, the world wasn't entirely safe anymore. A long forgotten dark magic floated through the air and even old Dwalin could feel it. Something stirred now in the shadows, something dark and dangerous that was far worse than orcs or dragons. Something that was impossible to see until it had swallowed you, consumed you whole so that you were driven mad with insanity.

Dwalin paused and then shook his head. He was imagining things, again; dangers that were not there. He'd been spending too much time in Ori's library, again; books that hadn't been opened in years filled his hands at times. He was getting senile in his age, again; dangers he invented to keep himself alert.

Thinking of Ori, the youngest of the old Company, Dwalin smiled, but it was full of a mixed sadness. He missed him and he would go so far as to say he had loved him once. Now, well now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps on his adventures Ori had changed, become a bit worldlier like his brother, Nori. Or worse, perhaps he'd grown societal, like Dori. No, Dwalin shook his head. Ori would never be entirely like Dori, or Nori for that matter. Ori was his own being; his own sweet-hearted kind soul that had Balin's mind for learning and record keeping.

It was, therefore, strange that Dwalin had grown an…affection for him. He would not call it love; what did he have a need for love? He was a battle-hardened dwarf who had killed too many dwarves, orcs, and other creatures he could not name. He had no need, or want, for love, not even in his old age. Still, that did not stop him from having his affections; the brotherly one he had for Balin, the paternal one he'd grown to have for Bombur's children; the friendly affection he felt towards all those that had belonged to the Company, and lastly the special affection he could only bring himself to feel for Ori.

No, it wasn't love. But it was a deep enough affection that he considered going himself on a journey to Moria to see what Balin, Óin, and Ori had managed to tidy the place up to be.

Dwalin looked to the sky and considered it fair enough weather he could make it to Moria soon enough if he took the well-traveled roads as far as he could go before going onto a mountain trail. Then he heard the bell toll, signaling the start of the luncheon meals.

Moria would wait, at least for another day or two. Then Dwalin would make ready for his journey.

It had been too long since he had given his brother a jest about being shorter and wider; it had been too long since he had hugged Ori close in the darkness. It had been too long.

The day the book came changed everything.

Glóin had been so thrilled to see his boy, his son Gimli returned that he hadn't noticed what the somewhat-taller dwarf had tried to delicately place in his hands. Glóin, overtaken with fatherly joy had dropped the precious gift so that it fell with a loud _thud_ to the floor, causing a silence to fall across the hall that had turned out happily to welcome their young dwarf lord home.

Dwalin had frowned when Gimli had stumbled forward to pick up the book and dust it off.

"What is this?" Glóin asked after Gimli apologized so profusely and tried to wipe years of neglect from an obviously well-worn book.

Gimli stumbled over his words and, so much unlike a hero that he was, suddenly fell into a lamentful mess. The tone of his voice and the words he spoke would never let a true moment's peace cross any of the dwarves of Erebor again.

"I'm sorry…there wasn't anything we could do. The mines…gone. All of it. Dark, deserted, orcs and goblins."

Dwalin paused but he refused to think the worst, not until someone had deciphered Gimli's speech and made some sense of things.

"What?" Glóin asked, watchful eyes on his son. "What's gone?"

Gimli swallowed and finally managed to collect some part of himself. "The _Book of Mazarbul_. That's all that's left of... of Moria."

Dwalin didn't know he'd done it, he didn't know how he'd done it. But somehow he'd moved through the still gasping and shocked crowd and grabbed Gimli by the beard and was dragging him through the halls. Glóin called a protest but was still too shocked to move. Dwalin finally released his hold on Gimli's beard and perhaps it was his presence that propelled the ginger-bearded dwarf inside, or maybe it was Dwalin's prodding but somehow they ended up in a chamber alone.

"What do you mean gone?" Dwalin demanded. "What happened to Moria?"

Gimli shook his head and stared at the flagstone floor. "The orcs and goblins…they came, killed all they could and took what they would."

"My brother? Your uncle? Ori!" Dwalin stared at the young dwarf and at the sorrowful shake of his head Dwalin released the fisted-grip he'd had on his tunic and took an unsteady step backwards. It couldn't be.

Dwalin turned away from the sorrowful look in Gimli's eyes and strode out of the room. He did not stop to look back at Glóin, Gimli, or that book. A pressure crushed his ribs and he could not breathe. Dwalin refused to be belittled by sunlight so he strolled deeper into the heart of the lonely mountain, deeper in the darkness and away from the light.

Balin, so brave and skillful, who had fought a dragon amongst thousands of orcs, goblins, and worse. His brother, who Dwalin had known all of his life. His brother who was supposed to lord Moria with as much decorum and gallantry that a dwarf could possess. Balin who had been so brave and so knowledgeable…was gone. Balin…dead.

Óin, too. And…Ori.

Dwalin paused and remembered the other dwarves that Gimli had not mentioned that had also set out with Balin and the others. They had considered themselves in good hands with three members of the famed Company who had survived the dragon. Dwalin closed his eyes and tried to remember their faces, but it had been so long ago. He could remember his brother's with great ease, so too could he recall Ori's. Óin was a bit blurry round the edge, but it was easily sharpened with Dwalin's memory.

The sorrow he felt deep within was something he thought he could forget, had forgotten, from the days of old. He hadn't felt such a deep sense of loss since Thorin had died and Fíli and Kíli had gone with him, fallen before him. Even then, that did not compare to the overwhelming feeling he had of knowing that his brother and two others that he considered friends had fallen to darkness.

So overwhelming it was that Dwalin sank to his knees in a half-completed mine shaft of Erebor and began to sob a long, low lamenting wail.

In the days that followed Gimli's return, the tale of his adventure with what he called the 'Fellowship of the Ring' had come to echo around the halls of Erebor. It appeared that Glóin's son was a hero in his own right and no longer needed his father's name for a dose of fame. Despite himself, Dwalin could admire the heroism of the young dwarf's actions, but he was reluctant to do so.

Dwalin could not help but blame himself for Moria. He was sure deep, deep down in his heart he knew that it wasn't his fault; nothing he could have done would have helped save his brother. He still didn't know what had happened in those mines; he wished that he didn't care to know. However, his curiosity would not let him rest. A month spent of entirely restless nights and a lack of appetite made him force his path to Glóin's chamber and ask for the book.

"You won't be able to read it," Glóin spoke softly, not surprised by his request, only by the length in which it took him to make it.

"I may be old, Glóin, but I still know how to read." Dwalin's tone was short, unkind but Glóin did not take offense.

"I know that, my friend. However, the last, and some might argue, the most important part, is written in Elvish. Unless you've learned how to read it, I suggest you take it to someone who can."

Dwalin sighed. "Surely, your son has translated for you? Otherwise how would you know?"

Glóin waited for his temper to abate just enough so that he could look him in the eyes.

"My son, he has a friend…"

To meet the son of Thranduil, to ask for his help, seemed more like an insult than a courtesy. Who cares if he was friends with the son of Glóin; who cared if he was 'not at all like his father'. He was still an elf; he was still the son of that wretch who had stood in their way so many years ago. He unfortunately looked a lot like his father, although the presence of Gimli next to him made the picture odd.

The silver-blond elf bowed before Dwalin. "Legolas Greenleaf, at your service Dwalin, son of Fundin."

Dwalin did not reply with a greeting, he merely laid the book on the table. "Read it to me."

He noticed the slight raise of Legolas' eyebrow but slowly the elf moved over to the book and carefully opened it. Gimli shifted his weight under the gaze of the much-older dwarf. Dwalin moved his gaze back to Legolas and braced himself for what he might hear.

"Which part would you like—?" Legolas started to ask.

"I can read my own kin's writing, read the part that your lot put down." Dwalin ordered gruffly and refused to let such trivial things undo him. If he was honest, he hadn't even read the dwarfish runes that were on the page. He had heard the whispers of Gimli to his father that Ori had written the last part, the only part written in elvish.

"Of course." Legolas cleared his throat and then read in even time, his voice gently telling the tale of a horror story. Dwalin could see it unfold before his very eyes and wished, wished more than anything he had been there to defend his brother's kingdom. "_We cannot get out. They have taken the bridge of the Second Hall. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there bravely while the rest'_" there, Legolas paused and looked up at Dwalin in an almost apologetic way. "I'm sorry, sir, but some of it has been destroyed. The next legible parts are…"

Dwalin gave him an agitated nod to continue. Legolas did.

"'_Óin's party went five days ago but today only four returned. The pool is up to the wall at West-gate. The Watcher in the Water took Óin-we cannot get out. The end comes soon. We hear drums, drums in the deep.'_" Legolas paused and looked up at Dwalin. "_They are coming._"

Dwalin swallowed. "That's all?"

Legolas nodded and closed the book softly and bowed his head respectfully.

Dwalin looked beyond the dwarf and his elven friend, looked beyond the trees that surrounded them. He could see nothing but the blurriness in his eyes. He could see only his guilt, his remorse, and the overwhelming feeling of loss. Dwalin felt an ache that settled into his heart and had not budged since that blasted book came.

"Thank you, elf." Dwalin managed before taking up the book from the table and started away from the elvish prince's homeland.

Dwalin did not hear Gimli call him back or wish him luck. Dwalin kept walking through the trees, sure that the elves were watching him but he cared not. If he died now, he would be with his brother and all the others again. Was that such a bad thing? He doubted the elves would attack him; peace was trying to be made, killing an old dwarf like him would only instigate things that everyone would rather put behind them these days.

He sat at the edge of a lake and looked out across the water, the sound of birds chirping seemed a vague annoyance rather than a comfort. The wind caused a ripple along the surface of the otherwise glass-smooth water. The sunshine was warm on his skin. Dwalin guessed such a place as green and peaceful as this would be what others might call beautiful, but not him. It was too bright up here, the air too fresh.

Ori's written words floating back in his mind and he felt a sharp tug on his heart.

_They are coming._

The orcs with their shrill screams and beating drums, their violent natures and terrible faces…those had been responsible for the death of the mighty Balin and the gentle Ori. A monster in water had taken Óin. It had all been a terrible waste, a tragedy that needn't have occurred. Dwalin shook his head and couldn't imagine the fear Ori must have felt to be alone in a small room, trapped, knowing what fate lay on the other side of that door.

Dwalin opened the book to the last page that had words on them and ran his finger over the old pages. The bloodstains mixed with ink and charred paper and Dwalin sighed. Poor, little Ori. He had deserved a better end than that.

That's when Dwalin allowed himself to say it, the words floated out of his mouth and took flight on the warm breeze.

_I loved you, Ori._

But it was too late and the affection that Dwalin had realized too late was the real thing was over. Dwalin felt old, older than ever before. He looked to the sky and saw large white puffs of cloud mix with blue and he sighed. How long, he wondered, would this new age last? He could only hope he didn't have to wait another hundred years before he could see his brother again.

Dwalin closed his eyes and rested his head against the bark of the tree. Soon, he would have to get up and return to Erebor and the much-welcome darkness.

That would wait, Dwalin decided. For now he would rest and try to find a peace that he could accept so that he could return home, knowing that those of Moria would never be able to.


End file.
